Night In, Lights Out
by Molly Rob
Summary: There was a power cut in the Holmes's House today. And under this unusual circumstances, 16-year-old Mycroft and 12-year-old Sherlock must embark on their biggest adventure yet: Finding Red Beard.


**Night in, Lights Out**

a sherlock fanfiction

_by Molly Rob_

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><p>'Mycroft!'<p>

The older Holmes brother stopped writing, put down his favourite fountain pen, and listened attentively to Sherlock's footsteps as they got closer to his bedroom door.

'My ceiling light just stopped working,' Sherlock explained as he came in. In his right hand was a tiny blue torch, where a beam of white light came from.

There was a power cut in the Holmes house today, which meant that except for a few exceptions that were using backup power, every electrical appliance has stopped working. The whole neighbourhood has been affected. Right now, only Mycroft's table lamp was working (albeit barely), and saving for the occasional flicker, he had no problem finishing his Biology homework on transpiration in plants at all.

'There is no light, so I can't do anything,' stomping his way through Mycroft's vast expanse of carpeted floor, Sherlock at last chose to settle on the edge of his bed moodily. 'I am bored.'

'Go to sleep, Sherlock,' Mycroft said as he began to work again, already knowing that his order would be ignored.

'No!' Sherlock answered defiantly.

'Go to bed and the lights will be back tomorrow.'

'Red Beard is not here, and I am not going to sleep,' Sherlock glared at Mycroft obstinately and crossed his arms together to emphasise his point.

Mycroft contemplated. If he found Red Beard, Sherlock would probably go to sleep without further complaint. He would have to go with him to find Red Beard though, because their parents were not at home right now, and he had promised to take care of Sherlock. After all, a Holmes never broke his promise. However, this meant he could complete his work later without further interruption, and a break from his dull school work was always nice.

'If we find Red Beard, will you go to sleep?' Mycroft sighed and looked at his little brother, who nodded solemnly.

'Alright then,' Mycroft closed his textbook. Opening a drawer, he fished out two identical torches with a black handle on them. Taking the handle of one torch, he rotated it at a leisure pace, winding the torch up. Grabbing the other torch with his smaller hand, Sherlock followed suit, mimicking Mycroft's every movement, even his involuntary frowns when the handle wouldn't go smoothly. His eyes were brightened at the prospect of having an adventure, which to him was basically everything requiring a torch.

'This torch converts kinetic energy into light energy,' Mycroft explained briefly the mechanism of the torch.

'And our kinetic energy comes from the chemical energy in the food,' Sherlock said and Mycroft nodded appreciatively. Even though Sherlock was by no means bright when compared to Mycroft, he already excelled the other kids in school, especially in science, which he has displayed an avid interest in.

'Alright, that should be enough,' Mycroft announced after a while and stood up, his torch in hand. He opened his bedroom door and walked out into a corridor. The white light from the torch illuminated the walls, painted creamy white with framed family pictures hanging on them. The homely wall of an ordinary household.

They listened in silence for Red Beard's deep and slow breathing. After a few years of living with him, they have come to memorise his breathing patterns.

'He is not on this floor. I can't hear anything,' Sherlock broke the silence after a while.

'Downstairs it is then,' Mycroft decided and headed for the staircase, with Sherlock tiptoeing theatrically after him, like what he saw people do on TV. When they reached the top of the stairs, they descended carefully, their sock-clad feet making no sound on the steps. Below them, the torch revealed what looked to be a sitting room. Sherlock's torch was moving around quickly, briefly showing various pieces of furniture like a crazy spotlight. He giggled happily.

'This is getting rather fun,' he whispered excitedly to himself as his torch continued to move around, pointing at different parts of the ceiling and the walls.

'Be careful, Sherlock. Your moving light may wake up the ghosts,' Mycroft threatened with a spooky voice playfully, elongating his last word until it sounded like the distant howl of the wind outside.

'Don't be silly, Mycroft,' Sherlock scolded with a slight patronising air that some of their parents' friends employed when talking to them, knowing how much it annoyed him. 'Ghosts are nothing but a reflection of people's fear of the unknown, undiscovered, and unseen,' he reasoned as he continued to play with the torch Mycroft gave him, which shone so much brighter than the blue one he had.

'Oh yeah? If you are not afraid of ghosts, then what are you afraid of?' Mycroft challenged, not liking the tone Sherlock used just now. This annoying git. He always knew how to get on his nerves. They have reached the sitting room, and having found that it was empty, they started to head for the kitchen, which was to the right of the sitting room. Behind him, Sherlock had gone quiet.

'I am scared of Lucus,' he finally confessed in a small voice. 'He always laughs and says ''Geek'' when I answer a question in class, and he always pushes me to the floor when the teacher isn't looking and make the whole class laugh at me,' he began to walk more slowly now. He had stopped his overly-dramatic tiptoeing, and his flashlight had stopped flying around.

For the Holmes brothers, socialising had never been easy. Mycroft had always been rather diplomatic, so although he had no friends, he wasn't (widely) disliked either. On the other hand, Sherlock lacked the same tact, and his already sensitive heart was made more vulnerable to bullying because of his young age and helplessness.

'Don't worry. Lucus will not be here,' the elder brother found himself promise Sherlock and put his hand on his shoulder for reassurance. He made a mental note to talk to his parents about homeschooling for Sherlock later. The things they taught in his year group were too simple to interest him, and bullying would not get better the longer one stays at school. Mycroft had found this out himself.

Sherlock's excited cry suddenly broke through Mycroft's trance. In a corner of the kitchen, right beside the garbage bin, was Red Beard lying on his stomach, his eyes looking languidly at the two familiar silhouettes.

'Red Beard! It is Red Beard!' Sherlock smiled at Mycroft. 'Come here, boy. Come here!' He bent his knees and clapped his hands. Red Beard stood up, now fully alert, and ran to Sherlock, who ruffled his back lovingly. Mycroft snorted at Sherlock's childishness, but nevertheless watched on with contentment the heartwarming exchange between them.

After that, it was merely a matter of taking Sherlock to bed, who was beginning to feel tired anyway. Mycroft let Sherlock rolled around in his bed for a bit to find a comfortable position, then gently tucked him in.

'Thank you brother,' Sherlock murmured, except he has already snuggled into the warm duvet, and the word 'brother' came out more like 'bluh' than anything else.

'Brother. Sherlock,' Mycroft corrected with a tilt of his head as he moved aside to let Red Beard climb onto the bed, right next to Sherlock.

'That's what I said. Brotherrrr… Blud…' Sherlock said and giggled, displaying for a moment his childish side which could laugh at the simplest things.

'It is either brother or Mycroft for you,' Mycroft pretended to sound stern but in the end his face couldn't help but break into a warm smile. 'Goodnight, Sherlock.

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><p>'Pass me the jam please, Blud. Thank you, Blud,' Sherlock opened the strawberry jam jar as his blue eyes glimmered mischievously at Mycroft, while their parents watched on with amused expressions.<p>

'Does he actually call you that?' His mother asked curiously when Sherlock had left for school.

'He wanted to call me Blud. That is nothing I can do about it, so I might as well indulge him. Anyway, can I have another muffin please?' Mycroft put down his coffee and tried to change the subject.

'I thought you never let anyone give you nicknames,' his mother pressed on with a smile. 'But you let him,' Mycroft frowned, looking at his smiling mother. What could she possibly mean by that?

'If you think that this is due to any form of sentimentality…' Mycroft started, then trailed off halfway through when he realised no one was listening to him.

Blud.

Well, he could live with that.

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><p><em>Note: This story was written the day the neighbourhood I live in had a power cut. Yes, I actually had to use a torch when I wrote, because like Sherlock, the ceiling light wasn't working properly. Still, it (the power cut) was reasonably fun, and everyone should try that sometimes.<em>

_Well, we get to see the brotherly love between Mycroft and Sherlock, their interaction with Red Beard, and where the name 'Blud' comes from. I hope you enjoy this story._

_Review at once if convenient. If inconvenient, review anyway. _~_Mol_


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